


Push Me To The Floor

by afinecollector (orphan_account)



Series: Hand to Mouth [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abuse, BSL, Beating, British Sign Language, Brotherly Love, Bullying, Deaf, Deaf Character, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Makaton, School, Schoolyard Bully, The Holmes Boys, argument, beat - Freeform, beaten, beaten up, deaf!lock, deaf!sherlock, fight, fraternal love, row, the holmes brothers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-07 16:18:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7721554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/afinecollector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft finds Sherlock bleeding all over himself. He patches him up, coaxes from him what happened, and promises to protect him better in future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Push Me To The Floor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Boton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boton/gifts).



"Hey, Holmes. Isn't that your little brother?" Mycroft pulled his head up from his hunched position over the desk, nose firmly stuck in a book, and searched out the whispered, raspy voice. It belonged to Christopher, of course, who was looking between Mycroft and the figure lingering at the library doorway from his table a foot or two away from Mycroft's. It was the curls that gave it away first - and then the horrific tie-dye effect of crimson on white that had somehow come to decorate his previously crisp school shirt. Closing the book, Mycroft ambled to his feet and pulled his bag with him. He moved quickly, but somehow still with a modicum of decorum, across the library and shoved his brother back out through the large, oak double doors. 

Mycroft dropped his bag down at his feet and reached out both hands to Sherlock's face, raising his head up. "What've you done?" As Mycroft tilted back Sherlock's head, making him watch his lips before he raised his chin a little more and was greeted to a bloodied nose, a rapidly swelling right eye socket, and a pretty impressive cut to his lower lip. Sherlock attempted to pull his face from his brother's hands, entirely uncomfortable with human contact, but Mycroft held him still with long, strong fingers. He brushed Sherlock's curls from his face, able to feel clumps that had begun to dry together with scabs of blood, and took a closer look at his face. Mycroft let Sherlock's face go and dropped his arms, grimacing at the continuation of blood flow from his nose when Sherlock straightened his neck. "Come on," He signed, speaking quietly as he did so. "We can clean you up in the toilets along here." 

He picked up his bag and gave Sherlock's right shoulder a light shove to urge him forwards before walking alongside him, guiding him to the 'easy access' toilet - containing two cubicles (one of which was larger so as to be easily accessed by a wheelchair), a urinal, a baby changing facility (something Mycroft had always wondered about), and a row of three sinks. He stepped inside, dragging Sherlock in with him, and locked the main door with the armlock, ensuring they were secured inside without interruptions. Mycroft placed his bag onto the countertop that surrounded the sinks and pushed the plug into the first one. He turned on the hot water tap and began filling the sink with fresh warm water while pulling wads of soft paper towels from the box dispenser screwed into the wall above. 

Sherlock dragged his blazer off, dropping it to the floor before he began unbuttoning his shirt. He looked down, watching his fingers draw the buttons through their loops, and scanned the blood-spatter pattern that emblazoned his front. He drew the shirt from his arms and handed it to Mycroft, leaving him standing topless and sickly pale beneath the overhead florescent lights. He turned his head, examining his face in the mirror, and cringed at his reflection, disgusted when the image he was met with only served to make the bloodied nose and puffy eye socket look ten times worse. He looked back at Mycroft, his brows crooked so fiercely that they caused deep ripples in his forehead. He reached up with his right hand and fingered at the swollen lip, tonguing at it on the inside, liking the way it hurt. He screwed up his face when Mycroft reached out and smacked his hand away. 

"You'll get an infection if you poke it." Mycroft signed sharply. 

Sherlock waved both hands before his chest, up and down in opposite waves, his fingers extended. _It's sore_. 

"I'm not surprised." Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Don't touch." He warned. He turned back to the sink and switched off the slowly running tap. He picked up two towels from his huge pile and folded them in half before dipping the edge into the warm water. He held the towels awkwardly in his right hand as he bunched his fingers together on both hands, with his thumbs extended, and graced them down both sides of his chest - like gesturing at braces or suspenders. "This'll hurt." He fixed his grip on the tissues again and decided to first tackle cleaning away the drying and congealing blood, deciding it would be easier to see what damage there was once the blood was gone. He held Sherlock's chin in his left hand whilst he began firmly but carefully wiping away the blood from Sherlock's philtrum and chin. The paper towels were decreased by over half in the time it took for Mycroft to be able to see Sherlock's chin in its natural tone, and get the final scabs of blood out of the bends of his top lip. Mycroft pointed his index finger against the tip of his nose. "Nose next." He signed. He reached for a clean towel, not wetting it this time, and made a thick Q-tip out of a folded corner to be able to insert it into Sherlock's nostrils. Pushing it gently into the left side, the tissue came away with a few dried scabs of blood, but when he gently pushed into the right side, he pulled away what looked like a crimson bumble bee. The mass of congealed blood, crisper on the outside edge where it had begun to dry and scab up, was clearly acting as a plug as when it was pulled free of Sherlock's nose, blood began to trickle down into his mouth. 

Sherlock pulled a face of pure disgust and tilted back his head, holding his hand out to Mycroft for tissues to stuff against the river pouring from his face. Mycroft took tissues in hand and pulled Sherlock's face straight. "No." He mouthed, not keen on Sherlock tipping his head back when his nose was running freely. "He held the tissues against Sherlock's nose in a pinch, occasionally drawing it away to assess the damage. It took a minute or two, but the bleeding stopped and Mycroft was able to quickly clean away the blood, revealing Sherlock's light smattering of nasal freckles, fresh and clean, and exposed the small cut that looked like it had all but brought the edge of his nostril away from the very corner where the curve of the nostril met the top of his mouth. Sherlock pushed his tongue into the stinging ulcer that had formed over the damaged part of his lip inside, clearly where the soft flesh had collided with his tooth, and delighted in the sharp pain. Despite the swelling to his eye and the clear bulbous swelling to his mouth, he looked a lot less damaged without all the blood and Mycroft felt a little less alarmed to be looking at his brother, now. 

"Feel better?" Mycroft asked - the sign for which he had never understood. A lot of signs made sense, using the letter shapes from the fingerspelling, or indication on relating body parts, but 'better' looked ridiculous - in his opinion. Sherlock nodded his head. Mycroft swept both thumbs up from inward against his torso. "Good." 

_It looks bad_. Sherlock frowned, examining his face in the mirror briefly, before turning back to his brother. _Mummy will go mad._

Mycroft nodded his head. Mycroft made a fist, then extended his thumb and pinky finger, "Probably." He said, rocking the hand from side to side. "What happened?" He softened his features, clearly quizzical but much more sympathetic. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. Mycroft rolled his eyes dramatically. "Tell me." 

_Troy Abbott_ Sherlock fingerspelled the boy's name and immediately Mycroft looked cross. Sherlock had mentioned the same boy a few weeks ago, just before the October half-term break, and had told him about how the boy was mocking him in lessons and how, when he'd asked Joe what he'd said on one occasion, Joe had told him he'd been mocking his voice when Sherlock had orally asked Joe a question. _He and his friends locked my arms from behind coming out of the gym. Troy slammed my face into the shower block wall._ Sherlock's expressions were animated, abject hatred on his face, and it made Mycroft feel queasy and made his arm hairs prickle to attention. _My hearing aids are gone_. 

Mycroft frowned. "They took them?" He asked, the sign obvious and much more to Mycroft's liking of accuracy. 

Sherlock nodded. _Troy tried to crush one with his foot. Broke the amplifier. He took the other when they left._

"Bastards," Mycroft growled and neglected to sign that particular word, but Sherlock was able to read that without uncertainty. "We need to report it to the Headmaster." 

Sherlock frowned. _Headmaster?_ He repeated, signing where Mycroft had failed to. _No! He will call Mummy. Don't!_ He begged him, both hands sweeping forwards, almost in a motion that looked like he was imitating ocean waves. 

"She's going to see the state of your face anyway," Mycroft said, pulling a face. "They can't get away with that. Anyway, where was Joe?" He asked, suddenly remembering that Sherlock hadn't even mentioned the man's presence. "He's supposed to be with you for every class." 

Sherlock grimaced. _I don't need him to watch me change_. He signed viciously. _He was outside, but when I came out he was gone. He must be at the maths block - that's my class now._ Sherlock explained, turning to look at himself in the mirror, feeling a headache brewing from the point of the impact against his eye. Sherlock looked back at his brother and crooked his index finger, waving it across his forehead. _I have a headache_. 

"Your face was smashed into a tiled wall, Sherlock. I'm not surprised." Mycroft sighed and shook his head. "Do you feel sick?" Sherlock nodded his head with a grimace. "Can you see okay?" 

Sherlock looked around him, assessing his own vision, then signed lethargically - his hands making circular motions over one another as if washing them. _Blurry_. Sherlock reached for the final few paper towels from Mycroft's pile and dipped them into the cooling water. He rubbed them down his collarbone and breastbone, clearing away the stains of blood made by the blood that had soaked his shirt. _Now what?_ he asked his brother. _Half naked?_ He swept his hands down his chest, finger and thumb held together on each hand. 

Mycroft couldn't help but smirk a little, but it didn't last as he watched Sherlock hold back a retch. "Come on," Mycroft put his hands on both of Sherlock's bare shoulders and turned him around quickly, guiding him into a cubicle, as Sherlock gave a belch and darted forwards, missing the toilet bowl and vomiting at his feet, soiling the toilet lid and across the floor before him. Certain his brother was concussed, Mycroft knew he couldn't keep Sherlock's bullying and physical beating a secret for much longer. He rubbed Sherlock's back as he heaved again, cringing as another mouthful of liquid splashed to the floor. He knew the appropriate people would need to be informed - the gym teacher, the headmaster, and their parents. Hate him as he knew Sherlock would, he wasn't going to let this happen again. He took a step back as Sherlock straightened up and rubbed the back of his right hand across his chin. He turned around, grimacing at his brother. 

Sherlock's right hand struck out, little finger extended, followed by guiding his right index finger away from his mouth. _Tastes so bad_. 

Mycroft rubbed his right fist in a circle against his chest. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I thought you being here would be okay." He signed swiftly, bypassing the oral words he'd been trying to use frequently with his brother for the quicker and easier method of communication they were both used to. "I never thought you'd be physically beaten just because..." He shrugged his shoulders up and shook his head. "It isn't fair, and I'm sorry it happened. I'm sorry I wasn't there to stop it - you don't deserve to be attacked just because you can't hear them." 

_I know that._ Sherlock signed lethargically, clearly still feeling quite unwell. 

"We need to tell somebody - it can't happen again and I won't be around all the time to help you clean up, or to talk it through with you." Mycroft reasoned, his expression firm but sad. "Mummy, the headmaster...somebody needs to know what happened today so that I know you're always going to be protected here." 

_You can't save me from everything_ Sherlock insisted, shaking his head slowly. _I have to fight my own battles at some point_. 

"But you're still a kid!" Mycroft signed feverishly, anger ignited in him. "You're my little brother and if I can't protect you from monsters like Troy Abbott, then I'm not really doing a great job at being your big brother. We need to tell the Headmaster. Like it or not, that's the only way I'm going to be happy that this isn't going to happen again. But..." He sighed, "...before we tell anyone anything, I'll deal with Troy first." 

_Deal how?_ Sherlock frowned. 

"Don't ask - you need plausible deniability," Mycroft smirked. He reached into his bag and took out his flash of orange squash. "Sip it, don't gulp, in case it makes you sick again. Stay in here, lock the door when I've gone but stay against it. I'll knock five times when I come back - five." He repeated. "Five bangs; when you feel those five, let me in, okay?" 

_What are you going to do?_ Sherlock asked, looking a little worried. 

Mycroft licked his lips. "Make him sorry." He vowed.


End file.
